


Thou too in Resurrection

by Silverfishy



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, teen lancelot gets turned into a dog, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29682471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverfishy/pseuds/Silverfishy
Summary: He’s so hungry – hasn’t eaten properly since yesterday morning, when the Father sent him out alone with the order to come back with demon blood on his sword or he wouldn’t get supper.“Hey there.” The youth is talking to him, soft and low like he’s a scared child or an animal. “I’m Gawain. You can come out now.”
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight & The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Thou too in Resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> This is a writing exercise to do something cute and fluffy, and a light-hearted break from my other darker stuff.
> 
> "Be thou comforted, little dog. Thou too in resurrection shall have a little golden tail." - Martin Luther

Lancelot is lost. Father is going to be angry, but there is nothing to be done about it – there's something wrong with him. 

He feels dazed, limbs aching and heart beating too fast, though there’s no danger – his senses are on overdrive. He’s always been keen of nose; deep down in that place he tries not to examine too closely he knows it’s the only reason he was spared by Father – now his gift is a curse as the smells of the wood overwhelm him. It’s like they’re shoved right up in his face; mulch and animal shit everywhere. The fresh meat and body odour of the corpses nearby. 

There’s something wrong with the ground. And the trees. One is too close, the others a strange washed out yellow and his head hurts - he can feel the ground under his hands but his knees aren’t bent, and there’s no tell-tale burn in his stomach muscles to signal a plank exercise. Is he bent double, arse thrust ungainly towards the sky? There’s nobody left alive to see him, but he hopes not – yet his muscles don’t feel right for that either. 

He tries to stand, but can’t get his balance; his hips are tight and angled oddly – has he injured them? He gets his head around to look at the rest of his body – also at a weird angle – and nearly breaks his neck as he startles. 

There’s a beast behind him, tan fur and strong, lean muscle, and every twist and scramble he makes to try and get away from it, to turn and catch a glimpse of the thing’s face, has it dancing out of sight behind him. Now he’s noticed the creature he can smell it – meat and musk and blood. He’s twisting in circles, panting, and – where are his knives? He can’t see them on the ground even as he spares a moment to search the mud, he has no hope of fighting a creature whose hind-quarters come up to his chest unarmed – he trips, stumbles, faceplants in the dirt in a tangled heap. 

This is the end; it’ll be on him any moment, he thinks, but the expected teeth and hot breath do not come. Groaning, cursing, he rolls over and tries to get his feet under him again. 

“Hey, you hear that?” 

Fuck! He can smell them – the hunters must have snuck up whilst he was distracted by the creature. There’s two; young, male, and definitely Fey. 

He has only seconds to hide – perhaps the beast stalking him will harass them instead. There’s a patch of dense undergrowth at the base of a nearby tree and he dives for it – the leaves swallow his body whole with none of the usual catching upon cloak and dagger. Fuck – has he lost his cloak too? 

The Fey round the crest of the hill and catch sight of the carnage he’s left behind him – a trading caravan, three adult Fey bleeding into the dirt. He made it look like bandits, as Father commanded. 

The young men are all dismay as they behold the wreckage, and the taller of the two grimaces, leaning over and throwing up his breakfast; Lancelot can smell it, millet and salt fish and goat’s milk mixed with the acrid stink of stomach acid. Both of the hunters are young, not even fully grown, on the cusp of manhood. Older than Lancelot, though. 

He should probably kill them. 

There’s no sign of the beast that Lancelot tangled with; perhaps it was scared off by their arrival, or perhaps it too is lurking in the shadows waiting for the opportune moment to strike. 

The smaller youth makes his way down the ridge and circles the caravan, kneeling by the corpses one by one and closing their eyes, murmuring farewells – the funeral words Lancelot has heard uncountable times now, usually from prisoners facing their end. He can smell the boy’s sadness, a hint of salt on the air, and as he stands and pushes short, messy hair back from his face Lancelot is suddenly struck by the strange realisation that this Fey youth has no idea he is watching. 

This is no performance, no attempt to tug at the heartstrings, no false face worn for twisting those around him to his will – this boy is sad, grieving, even for these strangers. 

He must make a noise, for the Fey youth startles, spins, and looks towards the brush where Lancelot is hidden. 

“What was that?” 

“What?” His companion calls down from the ridge – it smells like he’s finished throwing up now. 

The hunter is moving closer, gaze fixed upon the hiding place, and Lancelot hears a low, threatening rumble, feels it in his jaw and teeth and realises it’s him; quite without intention he is apparently growling. 

“Hey, Bergerum, come look at this.” The hunter crouches only a few feet away, hazel eyes watchful and open. “I think they missed one.” Lancelot could attack him right now, could leap out of the brush and go for the throat – except he doesn’t have his knives and his body is still not obeying him, heavy and stiff in unexpected places. The second boy is coming over, and if he wants to take them one at a time he has to move, has to strike now- 

“Why’d they have a dog in a caravan?” The other boy huffs, crouching down on his knees next to the hunter. 

The beast he’d encountered could have been a dog, maybe it’s around here – but they’re looking at him. 

“Hey there.” The hunter is talking, soft and low like Lancelot is a scared child or an animal. “I’m Gawain. You can come out now.” 

“Here, try this.” The youth Bergerum has a knife and Lancelot tenses but all he does is pull a folded package from his bag; Lancelot’s mouth waters as he draws a strip of roasted waterfowl, cuts a piece, hands it to his partner. 

He’s so hungry – hasn’t eaten properly since yesterday morning, when the Father sent him out alone with the order to come back with demon blood on his sword or he wouldn’t get supper. Father is trying to make Lancelot stronger, but this is his first mission without another Paladin to help talk to the human townsfolk, who look at him and see a demon just as fearful as his quarry. He’s been hiding and waiting for a day and a night for this chance, for the wagons which he knew would pass between the Fey villages. 

His task fulfillled, he could just leave now, turn and run and abandon these boys – near enough children despite being older than him, despite the fact he hasn’t been a child in a long time – leave them and run back to the Father, to be welcomed with praise for having proven his ability to hunt alone, prove that he’s trustworthy, that he’s repentant. 

His stomach is a gaping pit. Something wet hits the back of his hand and he looks down – his own hungry drool sits there on... 

On a pair of paws. 

The beast is him. 

He’s a dog.


End file.
